


Art for Art's Sake

by leveragehunters (Monkeygreen)



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Art, Based on a Tumblr Post, Gender non-conforming Steve Rogers, M/M, Pining, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Professor Bucky Barnes, Professor Steve Rogers, art thievery and amateur spies, based on fanart, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-01
Updated: 2018-12-01
Packaged: 2019-09-02 23:30:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16796848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Monkeygreen/pseuds/leveragehunters
Summary: “But Professor Barnes is more fun,” Steve said, smiling wickedly, pressing the tip of one long finger to Bucky’s chest. Bucky’s brain flatlined at the contact, left him blinking down at Steve. Steve watched him for a bit, then his smile softened and he let his hand fall. “James, then. And you can explain what’s so fascinating about the painting.”Bucky pulled himself together with an effort. “I think the artist who painted this was having some fun. Maybe he didn’t like the guy he was painting it for?” Steve looked at him sharply. Bucky didn’t quite know why, maybe he'd made some sort of art faux pas, but he pointed at the shadowy spot with the pigs. “Here. You can tell me if I’m imagining it.”Steve leaned in, following the line of Bucky’s finger, one hand settling gracefully onto Bucky’s bicep for balance. His hand was warm, his long fingers strong and supple as they curled slightly, and Bucky swallowed hard and called himself nine kinds of idiot. He was a grown man, not some high school kid with a crush. Steve’s hand was on his arm, not anywhere interesting. This was stupid.His suddenly racing heart seemed determined to ignore the message.





	Art for Art's Sake

**Author's Note:**

> This is an old fic I stumbled across while backing up my Tumblr, and I thought I'd post it here for safe-keeping. It's [inspired by this art](https://leveragehunters.tumblr.com/post/159778801868/beardysteve-inediblesushi-beardysteve) by inediblesushi and beardysteve of Smol 'art heaux' Steve in a sweater dress et al. I wasn't totally sure how to tag it, so feel free to suggest additions/alternatives.

This was not Bucky’s scene. He preferred to fully embrace the rumpled professor stereotype: it was comfortable, he didn’t have to iron, and he never had to think about what to wear. But when the University Board decided to hold a fundraiser, inviting all the bright and beautiful (read: rich) alumni and anyone even vaguely connected to them, especially when the Dean, who was one of those rich alumni, decided to seize the opportunity to showcase (read: _show off_ , and holy shit did Bucky ever hate that guy) his extensive art collection, it suddenly _became_ his scene.

It became every professor’s scene, and Bucky had dug out his best (read: only) good suit and his best fancy fundraiser (read: fake fake fake) smile and here he was.

Staring at a painting that he was almost certain had…but no, that couldn’t be right. Could it?

He leaned closer, squinting slightly, because he was damn sure, hidden in the shadow of a tree, tucked far in the background of some pastorally picturesque and probably historically significant (Bucky didn’t know anything about art) farmers ploughing a field there were two pigs screwing.

The one getting, well, _ploughed—_ to stick with the farming theme _—_ bore a striking resemblance to the Dean. “What the hell?” he muttered.

“See something interesting?”

Bucky was so baffled by the porcine relations he didn’t register who’d spoken for long enough to reply, completely unselfconsciously, “Not sure _interesting’s_ the word I’d use,” as he straightened. The questioning hum he received in response kicked his awareness into high gear and he stiffened and glanced sideways.

Oh yes, it _was_ Professor Rogers ( _but everyone calls me Steve_ ), small, slender, ludicrously blue eyes looking up at him from behind elegant black-framed glasses, his cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass. He was wearing a suit tonight, a surprisingly prosaic choice, but it was sharper than his cheekbones, the black so deep it seemed to eat the light. Bucky felt the familiar hopeless longing settle into place like an old friend, because Steve couldn’t be more out of Bucky’s league if he’d been designed for the sole and specific purpose of _being out of Bucky’s league_.

“Professor Barnes?” Steve prompted, one eyebrow quirking up slightly, sounding amused, and Bucky realised he’d been standing silent for way too long.

“James,” he said. “James is fine.” He knew he’d told Steve that before. Truthfully _Bucky_ would be even better, but he wasn’t sure he could handle it.

“But _Professor Barnes_ is more fun,” Steve said, smiling wickedly, pressing the tip of one long finger to Bucky’s chest. Bucky’s brain flatlined at the contact, left him blinking down at Steve. Steve watched him for a bit, then his smile softened and he let his hand fall. “James, then. And you can explain what’s so fascinating about the painting.”

Bucky pulled himself together with an effort. “I think the artist who painted this was having some fun. Maybe he didn’t like the guy he was painting it for?” Steve looked at him sharply. Bucky didn’t quite know why, maybe he'd made some sort of art _faux pas_ , but he pointed at the shadowy spot with the pigs. “Here. You can tell me if I’m imagining it.”

Steve leaned in, following the line of Bucky’s finger, one hand settling gracefully onto Bucky’s bicep for balance. His hand was warm, his long fingers strong and supple as they curled slightly, and Bucky swallowed hard and called himself nine kinds of idiot. He was a grown man, not some high school kid with a crush. Steve’s hand was on his _arm_ , not anywhere interesting. This was _stupid_.

His suddenly racing heart seemed determined to ignore the message. _For fuck’s sake, Bucky._

Steve abruptly straightened and turned, standing between Bucky and the painting, studying him. Bucky looked back, not sure what Steve was after, when suddenly Steve smiled. It wasn’t like any smile Bucky had ever seen from him. Normally Steve’s smiles were… It wasn’t that they weren’t _real_ , it was just that they were always so poised, so perfect, in a way Bucky would never be. This smile was wide and warm, felt like Steve was inviting him to share a joke, even if Bucky had no idea what the joke was. “You’ve got good eyes.”

Bucky shrugged, but he couldn’t stop a small, pleased smile of his own. “Did you notice? The pig on the, uh, receiving end looks like the Dean.”

Steve’s smile melted into a satisfied smirk. “It does, doesn’t it? Well you know what they say, there’s only so many faces in the world.”

Bucky nodded; he had no idea if that _was_ what they said, but it sounded reasonable. _Anything_ Steve said would have sounded reasonable with him standing that close, his hand on Bucky’s arm, that smirk on his face.

“So, I’m guessing you don’t know much about art?” Steve asked.

“Not a thing, except if I look closely enough I might find secret pigs.”

Steve laughed, deep and as warm as his smile had been, and it rolled over Bucky like a wave. “You’d be surprised how true that is.” He hooked his arm through Bucky’s and Bucky’s breath didn’t catch only because he used up an entire year’s worth of will power. “Come on, I’ll give you a guided tour.” His eyes danced as he tugged Bucky forward and Bucky fell into step with him, not quite sure how this had happened and not willing to question it in case it suddenly _stopped_ happening. “Who knows what else you might find.”

* * *

Bucky definitely wasn’t supposed to be here. The gallery had closed hours ago. The lights had been shut off, only the emergency lighting illuminating the floor. The security system, the cameras, were turned on, the doors were securely locked _—_ or they had been until Bucky had arrived.

But Steve had specifically mentioned this gallery that night at the fundraiser. Not in a _positive_ way. It was private, entry by invitation only, the art locked away, reserved for the pleasure of the same bright and beautiful (rich) people that had made up the fundraiser invitees. Steve’s eyes had flashed anger when he’d described it to Bucky.

When Steve had talked about the _pieces_ , though, hidden away from the public who _should_ be enjoying them, Bucky’s arm tucked against his side, his voice had been deep, passionate, half-way in love.

Bucky _hadn’t_ melted into a puddle.

Barely.

That was why he was here. Steve had told him art needed to be experienced, that it was _visceral_ , something that took root in your gut and your soul and your bones, that you’d never truly appreciate it until you could _feel_ it.

He’d instantly understood what Steve had meant, because he knew what it was to feel something— _someone_ —in your bones and maybe your heart, but he’d just grinned down at Steve and said, “Is that really something an art history professor should be saying? Wouldn’t that make the theory you teach kind of pointless?”

Steve had waved one languid hand. “My students are amazing. They’re doing things that I’ve never, that _no one’s_ ever seen before, carving out their own spaces for their own voices. I feel lucky they share as much with me as they do.”

“Half your luck,” Bucky had muttered, “I can barely get most of mine to care about _passing_ ,” and Steve had laughed, that deep, warm laugh, bigger than it should be. It had wrapped around Bucky, made him want to do something, say _something_ , except what on earth could he offer someone like Steve? _Out of your league, Bucky. So far out of your league._

Bucky gave himself a mental shake and slipped out of the shadows. He hadn’t broken into the gallery to reminisce. He’d broken into the gallery to study... no, to _feel_ the pieces Steve had spoken about so passionately.

It had been a long time since he’d broken into _anywhere_ , and he’d never used his skills to get something _he_ wanted. They’d always been used to help other people, to retrieve stolen secrets that would hurt people if they stayed stolen and to steal information that would hurt people if it wasn’t. That was why Natasha had taught him in the first place, a rumpled ethics professor beyond suspicion no matter the circumstances.

It felt strange to use them for himself, but it wouldn’t hurt anyone and being able to talk to Steve about the things he cared about… It was worth it. And the security in the gallery was frankly not that impressive. They didn’t even have guards walking the floor—not that that was unusual. Rich people tended, in Bucky’s experience, to trust hardware over actual human beings.

He’d reset everything that wouldn’t be triggered by his presence on the gallery floor, so he was free to wander. He was still cautious, though, still careful, sticking to the shadows, his barely bright enough flashlight a supplement to the emergency lighting as he moved from painting to painting.

Bucky had been wandering for a couple of hours, settling into comfortable stillness, wistfully wishing Steve could be here with him to explain what he was seeing, to tell him if he was understanding it right, when the hair on the back of his neck began to prickle. He snapped off the flashlight, wary as he eased into the deep shadows.

He didn’t know what had changed, what had alerted him, but he was suddenly sure he wasn’t alone.

A tiny sound, more sensed than heard, pulled his head around. There was a scrape, the sound of a zipper.

Quietly, Bucky crept towards the noise.

There was someone there, standing in front of one of the smaller paintings. He was moving stealthily, smoothly, flashes of pale skin like moonlight as he pulled a rectangular shape out of a bag and leaned it against the wall.

At this distance, even if he’d been facing Bucky, the dim light wouldn’t have been enough for Bucky to make out his features, but it didn’t matter. 

He knew that body.

Knew the way it stood and moved and leaned. Had surreptitiously watched those long slender hands dance through the air as it spoke, knew what they felt like resting against his arm. He even knew those clothes, though they sure as hell wouldn’t have been Bucky’s first choice for breaking into an art gallery. He’d seen them before. On Steve. He was staring at Steve. Steve who was wearing black, same as Bucky, but Bucky was in jeans, a ratty old sweater, flat black boots, scuffed and worn. _  
_

_Practical_ black _._

Steve’s black was far from practical, even if he _was_ wearing boots. They climbed up his calves and over his knees to frame his thighs, which were peeking out from under the sweater dress clinging loosely to his slender frame. Whenever Steve wore it Bucky simultaneously wanted to cuddle him, because it looked so soft with the oversized collar and the long sleeves falling onto his hands, and swallow his own tongue, because Steve was _gorgeous_ in it.

He gave himself a mental shake as Steve pulled tools out of the bag and delicately fiddled with the painting on the wall. After a minute he let out a satisfied sigh and lifted the painting free. Swift and sure, he replaced it with the one he’d taken out of the bag—because of course that’s what it must have been. Handling the one he’d removed like it was made of spun glass, Steve knelt—Bucky forced himself to look away from the flash of exposed thigh—to wrap it in a cloth and carefully slide it into the bag. The tools he tucked into a side pocket.

Steve was getting ready to leave. He didn’t know Bucky was there. Bucky could let him go. He didn’t need to ever know Bucky had seen him. It would be smart. It would be the smart thing to do.

He wasn’t sure it would be the right thing.

In a split second he weighed it up and made his choice. Softly called, “Steve,” as he stepped out of the shadows.

Steve whirled like a panther, graceful and poised, and for one second he looked _dangerous_.

Bucky held up both hands. “It’s okay, I’m not—”

Steve drew himself up to his full height, far taller than usual in those boots, and something uncomfortably like contempt flickered across his face. “No one will believe you,” he snapped out, then spun away, all flashing speed as he disappeared.

Staring after him, Bucky figured he was probably right.

He double checked everything before he left, made sure there was no sign either of them had been there, and carefully _didn't_ look at the painting Steve had replaced.

* * *

Bucky hadn’t slept much last night. He kept remembering the look on Steve’s face. He was sitting in his office, slumped in his chair, knowing he was pushing the _rumpled professor_ look well past its breaking point as he gazed into his coffee.

The sound of a clearing throat made him lift his head.

Steve was standing in the doorway. He was wearing a tight black sweater, slashed across the chest to expose slender muscle, and flowing black pants, his cheekbones sharper than Bucky had ever seen them, eyes incredibly blue behind his glasses, his hair a perfect golden wave.

He looked exquisite, untouchable, like a young god. Bucky’s mouth went dry.

He stared intently at Bucky, but didn’t speak. After a long moment, he stepped inside and shut the door.

Bucky swallowed.

Steve made his silent way across the office, eyes never leaving Bucky’s, each step measured and graceful, until he was standing over him, Bucky tilting his head back to keep him in view. Slowly Steve smiled, seductive, inviting. Different from any smile Bucky had ever seen from him. It looked… Bucky swallowed again. It looked _fake_. It didn’t reach his eyes and Steve always smiled with his eyes.

Steve reached out with one hand, saying, “James,” in a low voice, and Bucky shied away.

“Whatever you’re thinking of doing, don’t.”

His hand hung in the air and then he let it fall and sighed. His whole demeanour changed; he suddenly seemed tired, like everything that made him Steve had drained away. “You’re right.” A brief smile, a real one, came and went. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay.” It wasn’t really, or it _was_ , but only because whatever Steve had been thinking, he’d stopped. “Steve.” He pushed his chair back a little, so he could stop craning his neck, and Steve took advantage, slipping up to sit on the desk, legs dangling. Bucky ran his hand through his hair. “You haven’t asked what I was doing there.”

He’d surprised him, judging by the expression on his face. “It’s a private gallery. I assumed you had an invitation.”

Bucky boggled at him. “Look at me. Do you really think I’m the sort of person who could swing an invitation to a swanky private gallery? An _after-hours_ invitation to a swanky private gallery?” Steve’s gaze sharpened and Bucky found himself being examined thoroughly, a slow, sweeping look from head to toe. Bucky flushed under the close scrutiny as Steve’s gaze settled once more on his face. “The answer to that question is: I’m not.” He lifted his eyebrows slightly. “But if you thought I was it explains why you looked at me like that.”

With an absently graceful gesture that both conveyed apology and invited him to continue, Steve propped one foot on Bucky’s chair, ankle resting against Bucky’s thigh. The spot of heat from the contact radiated through him, setting butterflies dancing in his gut.

“I picked the locks, I disabled the security system and the cameras. I let myself in. I broke in.”

Steve’s eyes were very deep as they held his. “And you’re telling me this because?”

“When you walked in here I held all the cards. You were off-balance. I wanted to try and fix that if I could.”

“We’re not quite even.”

Bucky knew they were both thinking of the painting. “No, but it’s the best I can do.”

“And you wanted to do that for me.”

“Yes.”

Steve leaned forward, his position on the desk giving him height he didn’t usually have, and having Steve leaning over him like that made his heart beat faster. “Why did you break in?”

Bucky suddenly found his own hands absolutely fascinating. “You said you had to experience art to understand it, and you said that gallery had some important pieces. Stuff that was meant to be seen, to be enjoyed, that shouldn’t be locked away.”

There was a long moment of silence and then: “So you broke in to see them.”

There was a note of what Bucky would be prepared to swear was delight in Steve’s voice and he glanced up. He looked _proud_. Bucky tried a smile. Steve returned it and he was all Steve again, that hint of a slump in his shoulders, the tiredness, completely gone. He pressed his ankle hard against Bucky’s thigh and Bucky ducked his head, decided to risk it. “You painted those pigs, didn’t you?”

For a second he didn’t think Steve was going to answer, then he grinned, ridiculously pleased with himself. “I did. And you’re the only person who’s ever noticed them.”

“Can I ask why?”

“Why the pigs?”

“Why all of it.”

Steve pursed his lips and Bucky had the distinct feeling of being weighed and measured, before Steve said, “There’s too much art that’s been snapped up by rich assholes who don’t care about it except as a way to keep score. Too much that’s been flat out stolen, from artists’ families, from people who didn’t know what they had, in the middle of wars and armed conflicts, people getting killed, cities getting bombed and opportunists in the middle stealing anything that might be worth something.”

Steve’s eyes were burning points of light.

“So I’m doing what I can to…redistribute it. Sometimes that means getting it back to the people who should own it. Sometimes it means galleries that have replicas? They get the real thing and the rich assholes who… _acquired_ the original get a copy, with a little bit extra just for them, and they never even notice. Part of that’s because I’m very talented,” he flashed Bucky a quick smile that was mostly teeth, “but part of it’s because they have no idea what they’re looking at.”

He searched Bucky’s face, like he was wondering if Bucky could possibly understand, and Bucky nodded, eyes never leaving Steve’s.

“And I’ve got these amazing students… Art, it’s a chain, stretching back forty thousand years. _Forty thousand years_ , James, forty thousand years ago people were painting on cave walls in Indonesia and we’ve never stopped, every generation standing on the shoulders of the ones that went before, except they’re cut off from their legacy, cut off from their history, cut off from what should be theirs by these rich bastards. I mean, it’s bad enough the _serious art world_ ,” the words had a biting, sarcastic twist, “can be so fucking narrow that if you don’t fit the mould you don’t count, so these kids _have to_ carve out their own spaces—” Bucky could see Steve pull himself up and take a deep breath. He was calmer when he went on. “Art’s how we know who we are, it’s how we know we’re human, it’s how we’re more than, than pigs, existing and surviving and nothing more. The people who make it and the people they make it for, they have the right to their legacy.”

There was a hand clenched around Bucky’s heart, his lungs, leaving him awed and breathless, staring up at Steve who was staring down at him, the line of his body, the look in his eyes, daring Bucky to say the wrong thing.

There was really only one thing he _could_ say. “Do you want help?”

Steve did a double take. “Are you serious?”

Bucky nodded.

“You teach ethics. Shouldn’t you have a problem with this? Need everything to be all moral and proper?” It was light, teasing, but under it Bucky thought there was an actual question.

“Okay, morals and ethics are _not_ the same thing,” Bucky grumbled. “No matter how many damn times I tell people—” He cut himself off because if he started in on _that_ he’d never stop; Steve looked momentarily amused. “That’s not what ethics is. It’s different ways of thinking about what’s right and what’s wrong. I have a very firm personal view of the difference between the two and most of the time it’s got nothing to do with what’s legal. I trust you and I know how the world works, so if you want my help it’s yours.”

He was being weighed and measured again, but he didn’t mind. “Where did you learn to break into art galleries?”

“That’s kind of a long story, but the short version is I used to be friends with someone whose job was to retrieve secrets and she figured out pretty quickly that a boring ethics professor doesn’t attract attention. I,” Bucky glanced down at his hands, rubbed his fingers together, “used what she taught me to do some freelance work for people who needed help. Not recently,” he looked up, “it’s been a long time for me, but I have skills you could use.”

“I never would have guessed,” Steve said, shaking his head in amazement.

“I could say the same about you,” Bucky pointed out and the corner of Steve’s mouth curled in wry acknowledgement. “But we’ve all got a past. My turn to ask a question?”

“Sure.”

“The boots? The dress? Not that you didn’t move like a panther in those heels, but they’re not exactly practical.”

Steve’s eyes danced. “When you see someone dressed like that, what’s your first thought?”

“If it’s you?” The words slipped out before Bucky could catch them.

Steve’s eyebrows shot up, then his smile turned wicked. “Yes, tell me, Professor Barnes, what _is_ your first thought when you see me like that?”

Bucky was doomed now, but he wasn’t going to lie. “That you’re so dammed beautiful I know how Icarus must have felt.” He dragged his fingers through his hair, knowing he’d been too honest, felt the familiar longing settle over him, and smiled ruefully. “I know what the stories say, but I think he knew exactly what it was going to cost him.”

“That’s not the answer I was expecting,” Steve said after a moment of surprised silence and if Bucky didn’t know better he’d think he almost sounded _fond_.

“My second and third and fourth thoughts aren’t quite so poetic,” he admitted.

Steve gazed at him speculatively, but didn’t ask. “Okay, what would anyone else’s first thought be?”

Bucky considered it. “Not that you were there to redistribute art,” he finally said. “Maybe that you were there to make some kind of statement, political, maybe, or to take a selfie with a painting, or some kind of Instagram dare, if that’s a thing. Or once they knew you were a professor, maybe something for one of your classes.”

“Exactly.” His wicked smile made an appearance. “Plus if I ever wind up with a mug shot? I want it to be fucking fantastic.” Bucky laughed, he had to, and Steve grinned. “You seriously want to help me?”

“I do. If you want.” He hesitated, then added, “And my friends call me Bucky.”

“Bucky,” Steve said thoughtfully. “It suits you.” He pulled his other foot up to rest on the chair, so Bucky was sitting between his legs. “Yes, Bucky. I want.” He pressed his fingertips to Bucky’s chin and Bucky’s heart stuttered. Steve waited, but all Bucky could do was stare at him. Whatever Steve saw in his face must have been enough, because he leaned forward and pressed his lips to Bucky’s.

When Bucky had imagined kissing Steve—because even in his wildest dreams he’d never thought Steve would kiss _him_ —he’d imagined Steve’s kiss would be vibrant, wild, a touch on the aggressive side. Not that it would be gentle. Affectionate. A soft brush against Bucky’s mouth, nuzzling into the corner, fingers trailing back to curl behind Bucky’s jaw.

Overwhelmed by a rush of warmth so strong he could barely breathe, Bucky tentatively settled his hands on Steve’s thighs. He felt Steve smile as he kissed the soft skin in front of Bucky’s ear, murmuring, “And Bucky? Fly as close as you want. I’ll catch you.”


End file.
